Steelheart (17 page)

The stories he told, all of which were approved by the Church, had been heard many times before. As with all good storytellers however, the Taker had invented new ways to tell the same old tales, and everyone wanted to hear them.

The Taker also brought news. News from the Cathedral of the Rocks, channeled through him and his peers by Lietor's hierarchy of monks, news from the other villages on his circuit, and news he made up in order to keep things interesting. Humans were both interesting and newsworthy ... which explained why he took an interest in Amy.

Their conversations had been conducted in Zid, which the synthetic spoke extremely well, and covered a wide range of topics. One of these was the facility at Flat Top, which the Taker had seen but not been allowed to enter—something he very much wanted to do, since it could become the basis of a much-told story.

Seeing an opportunity, and knowing she wasn't likely to get another, Amy took the chance. She told the Taker about a pack she had happened across during her wanderings, how it belonged to the humans at Flat Top, and might enable him to enter.

The Taker was suspicious at first, and afraid of the pack, but the metal tubes, filled as they were with water, soil, and other natural substances, seemed innocent enough, so where was the harm? He took the pack, promised to deliver it, and continued on his journey. Where was he now? Staying in a village? Approaching the mesa? There was no way to be sure.

 

When the church service ended, Amy followed the others outside and headed for her hut. It was the least desirable domicile in the village, both because the previous occupant had been too elderly to carry out much-needed maintenance and because her spirit was said to haunt it.

The elders, led by the screw-faced Porno, formed a line and watched her walk by. It was cold, and the occasional snowflake twirled out of the sky.

Pomo stared, certain of the result, but fearful in case he was wrong. Credibility has value, after all—and his was at stake. Everyone knew that your breath was visible when it was cold—and humans were no exception. He had checked with the scav, and she had confirmed it. So why was this human different? Where was her breath? That's what the elders were looking for.

Amy watched from the corner of her eye. Was something amiss? Though not exactly one of the family, the synthetic had established relationships with most of the villagers and was used to friendly greetings. Till now, that is.

An elder said something to Pomo, and Amy felt a growing sense of dread. If only she could escape. She had gathered small items of equipment and stockpiled food. Not because
she
would need it, but because that's what a human would do, and her cover was critical, even if she were caught. A human would be punished—a synthetic would be expiated.

The android entered the hut. It was dark within, lit by little more than the dull red glow of a carefully banked fire and three open vent holes. Amy was busy digging for her escape kit when the door burst open.

Android Annie entered first, the stun gun held in a two-fisted grip, with Becka right behind. "Hold it right there," the scav said hoarsely, "or I'll put you down."

The synthetic felt an almost overpowering sense of disappointment. Life had been good—even under conditions such as these. But that was over now ... or soon would be. The android raised her hands, stood, and turned.

The elders entered and stared in open wonderment as Becka took hold of an arm, peeled some skin back, and exposed the cabling within. Pomo was triumphant. "You see! I told you so! The Devil is everywhere!"

"If you say so," Annie said in passable Zid, "but she looks like a model twenty to me ... Becka, pat her down." True to her training, Becka stayed out of the line of fire, forced the android's feet apart, and ran a hand down the inside surfaces of her legs.

Another elder, a female by the name of Zozo, allowed her gills to flutter. "Perhaps we should notify the Church."

"We've been through that," Pomo said impatiently. "The human will pay us, and the Church won't. We profit and the Devil loses.... What could be better?''

"What indeed?" Annie asked sarcastically. "Now, if you folks would be kind enough to leave... we'll get her ready."

Amy watched the elders file out through the door. "How did they find out?"

Annie shook her head sympathetically. "It's cold outside. Nobody could see your breath. Simple."

"Yeah," Amy replied, "simple." The synthetic charged, felt the universe explode around her, and skidded face first through the dirt.

The human blew a wisp of hair out of her face and lowered the stunner. "Damn. Looks like we're gonna do this one the hard way. You take her feet... I'll take her shoulders. Let's get the hell outta here before the T-heads change their minds."

Becka nodded and did what she was told.

 

 

 

15

 

car' a van
/ n / a company of travelers, pilgrims 
or merchants traveling in a body for safety

 

 

The evening turned out to be rather pleasant thanks to the packers, and the bonfire they built. It was a truly extravagant blaze, the kind that defies practical purpose but draws people in. Tired after a long day's ride, and eager to relax, the pushers basked in its warmth. The light embraced some and left others in the dark. Lies were embellished, jokes were told, and laughter warmed the night.

Cognizant of the need to blend in, Harley Doon and Mary Maras had joined the throng and were co-opted by a makeshift sing-along. In an effort to make them seem more ''natural" model twenties had been endowed with random "gifts"—the sorts of gifts humans receive by right of their genes. Doon had been "born" with an operatic baritone.

Mary listened for a moment, brought an extremely nice soprano voice to bear, and people began to listen. Even the sentries strained to hear.

Perhaps that's why none of them saw the dark, childlike figures who darted between the hulking machines, paused by massive tracks, and tried the doors. Some swung open. When that occurred, long slivers of steel appeared in grubby little hands and the intruders disappeared.

The woman named Salls watched approvingly, sent children who had been unable to gain entry to a central marshaling point, and began her rounds.

 

Ralphie was enjoying himself. And why not? He had spent the last twelve hours in Tail Bone's cab, looking at the ass end of the crawler in front of him, and listening to Torsho's stupid jokes. If
he
didn't deserve some R & R, no one did.

A packer grinned and handed the bottle to Ralphie. The label read "HZ-27—The best booze on Zuul." An unsupported claim that might even be true. The pusher took a swig and belched. Both men laughed.

Ralphie joined the sing-along for awhile, drank more of the HZ-27, and started to feel sleepy. Others had the same problem, because the group was smaller now, and people continued to leave.

Ralphie said good-bye to his newly made friends, tripped on a rock, and took a sight on Tail Bone's amber parking lights. Were they blinking on and off? No, those were his eyelids opening and closing.

The pusher laughed at his own foolishness and wove his way across the parking lot. A sentry, who was little more than a silhouette against the still blazing fire, raised a hand in greeting. Ralphie waved back.

Salls lowered her arm. Her coat sleeve was wet with blood. It congealed and started to freeze.

A mixture of gravel and slush crunched under Ralphie's boots as he approached the crawler, climbed the access ladder, and reached for the door. The handle gave under his hand. Ice crackled as he pulled the door open and swung inside. A soft orange glow emanated from the control panel. The pusher hit his head on a fire extinguisher, reiterated the same obscenity three times in a row, and stumbled into his quarters. The overhead light was on—which would have seemed strange if Ralphie had been sober enough to think about it.

His gunner, an individual named Torsho, had gone to bed with his boots on. They were caked with gravel and slush. The mixture had started to melt and pool on the deck. The slob.

Ralphie said something rude, brushed past, and struggled to remove his parka. That's when the little boy stepped out of the closet. He had light brown hair, innocent eyes, and rosy cheeks. Ralphie, who knew nothing about such things, thought he was nine or ten. "Hi, mister... what's your name?"

Ralphie swayed, tried to think straight, and frowned. "You aren't supposed to be in here ... it's against the rules."

"Really?" the little boy inquired innocently. "I'd better leave, then. . . .Where shall I put the present?"

"Present?" the pusher asked stupidly. "What present?"

One of the youngster's hands was hidden behind his back. He motioned with the other. "You wanta see it? Lean over."

Ralphie remembered the bottles of HZ-27 the packers had passed around, grinned happily, and lowered his head.

The little boy had extremely bad breath. The odor was the last sensation Ralphie experienced before six inches of needle-sharp steel slammed into his temple.

 

Harley Doon and Mary Maras had returned to Bullet Eater as soon as it was politically feasible to do so. Mary had accepted two polite swigs from the frequently passed bottles. She yawned and went to bed.

In spite of the fact that Doon didn't need to sleep, he had to
pretend
that he did, and he was accustomed to periods of forced inactivity. Periods during which he entered a sort of semiconscious reverie. And it was there, within his processor, that he battled the rider.

Though quiescent most of the time, the electronic ghost liked to whine, and sought opportunities to do so. The most recent cause for complaint was the convoy's failure to make enough speed. As if to emphasize his point, the rider flexed an electronic muscle. Doon felt a leg jerk and struggled to control it. Confident he had Doon's attention, the ghost stated his objective. "We need to reach Flat Top as quickly as possible."

"Really?" Doon replied. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Well, pardon me if I don't give a damn." Doon felt his head jerk to one side. The voice was grim. "Well, pardon me if you
do
give a damn." "Screw you."

The not so productive conversation might have continued indefinitely if Michael hadn't interrupted. His computer-generated voice boomed in Doon's head. "Harley? Are you there?"

The synthetics had chatted on and off ever since they first came in contact. It was something both enjoyed. Doon pushed Sojo down and back. "Yeah, Michael... I'm here. What's up?"

"I'm not exactly sure," the satellite answered hesitatingly. "All I can get are peeks through the clouds ... but there are anomalies."

"Such as?"

"Do you have children with you? I've seen a number of what looked like child-sized IR signatures enter the crawlers. No big deal, except that each time someone visits with one of your sentries, the sentry she seems to wind up lying on the ground. There's six of them—all cooling rather quickly."

"Damn," Doon said, sitting up straight. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Michael replied. "I have sensor readings for what looks like a group of thirty mutimals coming your way."

Doon stood and reached for his gun belt. "Thirty? That's not good... not good at all! Thanks, Mike. I'll check it out."

The satellite "heard" a click, questioned the manner in which his name had been shortened, and decided to let it go. For Doon.

Doon called for Mary, received no response, and peeked through the curtain that enclosed her bunk. A shake brought no response. Hairball rolled out from under a blanket and jumped up and down. "Harley want to play? Hairball ready."

"Not right now, little buddy ... you stay with Mary." The synthetic remembered the bottles and the way in which they had been passed around. Now he knew why. There had been drugs in the booze. A quick analysis of the liquid still resident in his food reservoir would confirm his hypothesis—but there were more urgent matters to attend to.

The android triggered the convoy's general alarm and issued a warning. ''Doon here ... if the convoy isn't under attack, it soon will be. Please respond with your name and unit number."

The response was almost immediate. "Bolano here... I need a sitrep."

There was no way to talk about Michael without revealing his true identity, and even if Doon had been willing to do so, the rider wasn't. Sojo's presence was suffocating, and the synthetic fought it back. "I can't wake my wife... and I think she was drugged."

"This is Roko," another voice interjected. "My number two is out like a light."

"Same here," a third voice added. "And I'm kinda woozy myself."

"Check your doors," Bolano said grimly. "Make sure they're locked. Any unit that can hear me and hasn't reported, do so now."

There was silence followed by what sounded like giggles. "Who's there?" Bolano demanded. "Identify yourself!"

That brought more giggles followed by a click.

"We've got bandits coming in from the east," Roko reported evenly. "What should we do?"

"Let's roll," Bolano said calmly. "Slave your weapons to the control position and form on me. We'll take the riders first."

"What about the others?" Doon asked. "What if someone hijacks the crawlers?"

"I have a remote cutout switch," Bolano said grimly. "Nobody's going anywhere. Not till
I
say so."

The cutout switch was news to Doon, but it was supposed to be, and made a lot of sense. He brought the systems online, fed power to the treads, and felt the crawler lurch into motion. There were four units altogether, and they had just formed a diamond-shaped formation when the bandits arrived. True to her name, Bullet Eater went first and took the brunt of the attack.

They were brave, the android gave them that, but severely outgunned. Even with the tractors' weapons on automatic, guided by little more than body heat, the carnage was terrible.

There was very little room for the machines to move— but no need for them to do so. Together they comprised a bullet-spitting fortress. Every third round was tracer. Mutimals screamed, riders fell, and slush geysered into the air.